


walk with a smile on my face knowing i live a lie

by carrionkid, psychedelia



Series: a friend of the devil is a friend of mine [4]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Cults, Earth-65, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 17:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carrionkid/pseuds/carrionkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: the year is 1963 and occasionally, it's nice to get out of the House; Bullseye and Matt both go on excursions to New York City.





	1. bullseye

**JUNE, 1963**

He actually  _ likes _ being out here, which is surprising, but it’s smaller than the city proper, and quieter, and the people here are all here to get good food and produce and they don’t give him  _ weird _ looks like some people do in the city. Matty was always better at moving through the streets, moving through people, so the city suited him but-- Well, like he said. This ain’t too bad.

Even so, by the time the afternoon is crawling to its height, Bullseye’s getting  _ bored _ , and Katherine and Jack, two of the members of the Flock, are nice and all, but they’re working more than he has to, so they don’t have much time for him, and their daughter, Mack, has books and stuff that she’s reading when she gets bored, which is a lot, so she isn’t even talking to Bullseye much. 

He’s taken to either stealing raspberries-- it’s peak season, and they’re tart and sweet and all sorts of good, and he’d talk about that to anyone who would listen, but not much people talk to him other than Mr. Fisk and Mr. Wesley and Matty, and  _ none _ of them really care too much about his berry opinions-- or throwing them, seeing if he can land ‘em in purses and strollers and down shirts and stuff. 

‘If’ being rather a useless word here, ‘cause of course he always makes it. Doesn’t ever miss, but he’s gotta abort a couple attempts when Katherine gives him a  _ look  _ and it’s that kind of look that members of the Flock sometimes give him, all sad and worried-like, the kind that means he’s gonna get a talking to by Mr. Wesley later.

The early summer sun is hot and it bakes into his skin, and whenever Bullseye leaves the safety of the pop-up tent, he can feel sunny tendrils baking down onto his scalp, so he grabs as much of the hair as he can and piles it on his head like one of those messy buns some of the ladies do at Home when they’re gonna be working in the fields all day. He’s not too good at it, all things considered, and it’s got a mighty weight to it, but it’s better than feeling the skin on his scalp feel like it’s slowly melting, and it’s better than the back of his neck getting all sweaty, and really, it all means that he can see better and can aim better. 

And if even gets Jack peering at him all curious-like, because he doesn’t think Jack’s ever seen him with his hair up. Bullseye can’t really tell what he’s looking for though, so he ducks his head to avoid feeling his looks, wringing his hands over themselves. Never much liked people starin’ at him all too long, especially not when he can’t hide behind his hair.

He’d ask if they could just  _ leave _ , but he was invited along for a  _ reason _ . Matty’s been gone for  _ days _ , maybe even a whole week, and he’s coming back home today. A little heat and too many people’s worth it ‘cause it means he gets to be the first one to say hello to Matty after his trip, and Matty’s always awful funny after his trips. Sometimes in a not-so-good way, but that’s usually only when he’s climbing into the window of the big House in the middle of the night and covered in blood and doesn’t have much in the way of words or emotions. 

(During those times, Bullseye sleeps in his own bed, usually, because he’s never liked blood and even if it’s on Matty, that’s not really better and sometimes it’s worse, really. But he’d be a rotten liar if he said he’d never curled up in bed with Matty after he came home and fell asleep while Matty was still sitting up in bed, his katana strung across his lap and still covered in filth and still kinda empty in the face, because he’d never get to falling asleep without him.)

This is different, ‘cause it’s the middle of the day, and the longer Matty’s away, sometimes, the funnier he gets when he comes back. 

Like taking a ‘vacation.’ Matty’d told him about those once. Said your family’s supposed to save up and up and up for about a year and then you have extra money to leave your city and go on a little getaway. For holidays and for kids, he said. ‘Disneyworld’ and the ilk, though Bullseye’s not too sure what that is other than something to do with a mouse. He didn’t have much of an answer when Bullseye’d asked why anyone would ever want to vacation away from Home when it’s so nice, and he dropped the subject a mite too quick after that. 

He must be getting lost in his own head and thoughts again, because the girl, Mack, she’s sitting up and she tugs on his arm and says, “I think your brother’s here,” in that small kinda quiet way she sounds, and in less than a second, Bullseye gets up so fast to peer out of the tent and look at the front of the marketplace entrance that his vision kinda blurs out and statics for a second, leaving him wavering where he stands. Sure enough, Matty’s comin’ through, and he looks mighty tall and a little out of place amid all the folks in their farmer’s clothes and nice dresses and all. 

Matty’s carrying a suitcase in one hand, and he’s got a suit jacket draped around the handle, leaving him in just a white button up and slacks. He’s using one of those canes of his to make sure nothin’ gets underfoot (he doesn’t use them much at Home, but then again, he expects Bullseye to keep the floors clean at all times), and he’s clean. No blood, which means he’s probably gonna be in an okay mood. 

Bullseye all but clambers closer to the fruit and veggie stands to meet Matty where he’s coming. “ _ Matty _ ,” He breathes, and grins, and tries to reach over the boxes to grab at Matty’s wrists when he comes in close, but Matty doesn’t let him, casually sliding just a hair back away from him. 

But he’s smiling, too. Matty doesn’t smile so big, and he doesn’t laugh so loud ever, but even this small turn of the lips, Bullseye knows, means he’s real  _ real real _ happy. 

Instead of letting Bullseye grab him, Matt selects a peach, his fingers running over the few on display until he finds one he likes the feel of, and he’s supposed to pay, but he’s  _ Matty _ and it’s their fruit anyways, so Bullseye doesn’t make a fuss. 

“Afternoon, Bullseye,” he says in greeting, and it sure is a lot nicer than he normally is.

“Hi, heya Matty, was the trip good? Are you glad to be back home? Home’s been awful lonely without you, you know, and Mr. Wesley was even  _ meaner  _ than usual this whole entire week, but you know what, he made it up when he said I could go to the markets today and hang out with Mack and Katherine and Jack and all and--”

He slowly cuts himself, because Matty’s barely listening, just smiling and kinda sidling around the side of the produce stand.

Bullseye glances back at Katherine and Jack, and they look a little uncomfortable, but their backs are straight and their lips are pulled into a smile, and even if it’s stiff, they’re at least not yelling at Matty to pay. Matty gives them a small two-fingered wave around the peach and ducks under the tent to be shielded from the sun under the tent. 

For someone who lives outside a lot, Matty’s skin isn’t so good under the sun, and Bullseye’s seen him  _ red red red _ , red as a lobster before. Right now, he just looks a little flushed and hot, but he still looks  _ good and healthy,  _ and yeah he’s thinking that just ‘cause he ain’t seen Matty in a week, but it’s also ‘cause sometimes Matty comes home…  _ wrong _ .

It’s the same kind of  _ wrong _ that he gets when he comes back from meetings with Mr. Fisk in his office, and it’s the same kind of  _ wrong _ that Matty gets when he comes back home after a weekend in the Shed. Bullseye can’t get him to say much, and he doesn’t talk much or move much, and he doesn’t look like he’s feeling much of anything.

But now, he looks relaxed, and he’s not injured like Missions sometimes make him, and he makes careful work of cutting up slices of the peach he chose with a pocket knife, not caring too much it seems when he gets peach juice all over his fingers. He sits in the dirt; even though Matty talks about  _ fashion _ and not being  _ gross  _ and  _ dirty _ , he still sits in the dirt just the same as Bullseye does when they’re home, and Bullseye kinda finds it funny when Matty pretends to be some fashion-minded city man.

“You’re home for good now? Are you happy to come home? Was it a  _ fun _ mission?” Bullseye asks again, and  _ oh _ it’s nice to have someone who can understand him when he talks too fast and quick and tumbles over his words, because all week the people Mr. Wesley have told him to go hang out with would ask him  _ what _ and  _ can you repeat that _ and  _ speak up, boy! _ And Bullseye didn’t know how to tell them that this is just how he  _ talks _ . 

But Matty always understands, and he gives Bullseye an amused look, like they’re sharing a secret. “You know the answer to that. They’re never fun.” He smiles, and there’s a relaxation to him that he doesn’t have all that often. Maybe he really  _ is _ happy to be home.

The little girl, Mack, she’s pretending she isn’t wide eyed as she reads her book, but lotsa folks get like that around Matt. He’s got lots of names and lots of jobs and sometimes he’s mean and sometimes he helps out a lot, and no one’s quite sure what to make of him because he sure doesn’t talk as much as Bullseye. Most of the kids, they seem to like Matty, especially when he’s being lazy and just letting them crawl all over him, but Mack’s a bit older and she told Bullseye that really  _ they’re much too old for all these kid games _ , and Bullseye didn’t really understand her much, but he knew enough to realize that that meant she wouldn’t take too kindly if he threw a raspberry at  _ her _ .

“Yeah, but you smiled and all, so I thought maybe-- You know.” Bullseye shrugs. If they were Home and no one was around, he’d be able to sit close to Matty without Matty pushing him away, but they’re not Home and there are people around, so he doesn’t even bother trying, even if it makes his body jitter and shake from how much he wants to. 

‘Cause the truth is, he  _ missed _ Matty. As annoying and mean and rude as he is, he’s still someone to talk to and someone who will actually  _ listen _ , and he’s been gone for a while now.

“No,” Matty says, and gives a one-shouldered shrug, and hands Bullseye a slice to the peach he’s holding. Bullseye takes it, and Matty’s quiet, and for a second, he thinks that maybe Matty’s just  _ done _ talking for the day. He does that sometimes, just up and decides that he’s finished for the day, and nothin’ Bullseye says will get him to engage anymore. 

Bullseye pops the slice of peach into his mouth, not much caring that he’s getting sticky juice all down his arm, and almost chokes on it in excitement when Matty’s next words are, instead, “Describe the market.” 

It’s a  _ game _ see, one they play sometimes, and it’s been a while, and it’s  _ funny _ , because Bullseye can describe so many things to Matty and always, always, always, Matty will somehow be able to describe stuff that even  _ Bullseye _ missed, and Mr. Fisk says he’s clever and that he’s got clever eyes, so that’s saying a lot.

But, well, Matty’s got a secret, too. He’s got  _ his _ Gift and he’s usually not so obvious about it, but in this little game, Bullseye knows why Mr. Fisk likes Matty so much. Matty just  _ knows _ things that no one should be able to know, like he’s reading minds. Maybe he is; God could have made Matty psychic.

He scrambles closer to Matty, kind of angling out of the tent to look out at the aisles. It’s not as busy as it was a couple hours ago, must be winding down, but there’s still a considerable crowd of families and folks all on their own, and he narrows his eyes to start out easy. 

“Lady with a real pretty flowery dress. It’s kinda hangin’ off her, and Matty, I bet you she’s gonna drop that head of lettuce by the time she leaves, she’s kinda fumblin’ around with way too much stuff.”

“What color is her hair?” 

“Hm. Like… dark, dark brown.”

Matt leans forward, considering, the pocket knife just hovering over the remainder of the peach. “Her hair is pulled up, rather messy?” 

“Yeah.”

“She’s pregnant, but she doesn’t know it yet. Cigarettes in her purse, dress a little too tight, because she hasn’t figured out why she is gaining weight yet.”

Bullseye howls with laughter, and angles towards a man, this time. “What about this guy? He’s got-- oh, Matty, he’s kinda gross. Must be a farmer, what with those over alls, and he’s got a big long beard. I bet he stinks.” 

The man in question is lingering around a stall, and he’s a big man, but his face is all carefully neutral like he’s trying to be awful careful about what he looks like to others. He’s sweaty.

“Oh, he does.” Matty says, and there’s one of his strange little smiles on his face, the kind where Bullseye’s not sure if he’s actually happy, or if he’s findin’ somethin’ awful cruel to think. “He’s got caaaaancer.” He wriggles the fingers in the knife-wielding hand all spooky-like, and Bullseye snorts.

“Well, God bless’m.”

“I can smell the pig-shit from here. Doubt he’s going to be seeking much medical attention.” 

Katherine keeps giving them two a  _ look _ , like they’re being obnoxious and strange, and she keeps staring at Matt like she’s afraid he’s gonna pounce like one of the foxes out in the woods, but if she’s gonna be  _ mean _ about them, Bullseye’s gonna try not to care. He’s  _ happy _ Matty’s coming Home, and there’s nothin’ she can do to stop it. Just ‘cause  _ she’s _ not so special like he and Matty doesn’t mean she’s allowed to get all jealous that they’re playing this game. 

They continue on for a while as the market slowly dries up. Jack had said to him, on the way down here, that it’s only open on the weekends, and when Bullseye’d asked what day it was, because really he’s got no way of knowing, Jack had said ‘Saturday’ and had given him a look in the rearview mirror like it was mighty strange that Bullseye wouldn’t know what day it is. 

Well, he knows how many days Matty was gone-- five-- but he’s never had much of a reason to know about, say, Tuesdays, or Fridays and that stuff. Sundays he sometimes pays attention to, because Matty’d said once that when he was a kid, he used to go to church on those days, and it made Bullseye really rather curious about going to church only on one specific time in the week, rather than devotin’ most of your days to God and all that. 

But, anyways, they continue their game until Matty’s finished his peach and has taken to stealing handfuls of raspberries from the stand, getting in the way of Katherine and Jack as they try and start packing everything up. They had a lotta customers, according to Mack, and he knows lots of people were staring at him like he was so strange and interesting, and one old lady had even asked if he was Jack and Katherine’s ‘cause she’d “never seen this cutie around.”

Bullseye doesn’t realize he’s been spacing out again until he gets a berry lobbed at the side of his head and Matty is crouched in front of the tent, bracing it up with his arm while they take it down. 

“Earth to Bullseye,” He says, and Bullseye slowly gets up out of the dirt to leave the enclave of shadows. Didn’t even realized he’d been spacing out, doesn’t know how long. But he kind of ends up standing there awkwardly by Mack while Matty, Katherine and Jack pull the tent down together. 

He wouldn’t be much help if he tried, and this way he can turn to Mack and say, “Hope I get to come with you folks again.” 

She looks at him for a moment and then back at her parents and Matty, and gives a small shrug. “I think you were only here for him.” 

“Whaddya mean?” 

Mack just shrugs and slips the book she was reading under her arm. She stares at Matt for a while, and says, “Well, he really only talks to you. So maybe that’s why Mr. Wesley let you come with us today.” 

He doesn’t really know what she means, though, ‘cause she talks like she’s speaking in secrets. A lot of them at Home do that. They don’t say much to him or Matty, but it’s all got meaning after meaning after meaning layered into it, and sometimes Bullseye’s just not learned enough to really get it all. 

Bullseye shuffles in the dirt, watching the dust kick up around his toes and settle on the leather of his sandals. “Maybe,” He says, ‘cause he doesn’t have much else to say, and most everything is being packed back up in the back of the truck they brought so he’s being ushered over anyhow. 

He goes quick, since he doesn’t want Mack sitting next to Matty,  _ he _ wants to sit next to Matty. And besides, sometimes car rides make him queasy when there’s soooo many people in them, so he wants to call dibs on the middle seat in the back, which means Mack ends up on one side and Matty on the other, his long legs pushed up tight to accommodate his height and the briefcase he brought with tucked on his lap. The cane he brought-- and Bullseye knows it’s that special one of his, that’s got that really pretty blade hidden inside and  _ no _ one ever knows-- leans against the window, and he wonders if Matty knows there’s a couple flecks of dried blood on the seam where the sword pulls out from. 

Must not, considering how clean he is everywhere else. 

Katherine and Jack hop into the front seats, and Bullseye realizes that they’ve been  _ awful _ quiet since Matty showed up. They’re already quiet, but they’ve barely said a peep. Matty just has that effect on people, Bullseye supposes. 

They pull out from the marketplace and begin the drive Home, shoulder to shoulder, and really, Bullseye just hopes Matty did such a good job on his Mission that he won’t have to leave Home for a while yet, that Mr. Fisk will say something to the effect of  _ wow, what a good job you’ve done, take a break and stay in the Big House for a month.  _ But that doesn’t really sound like how Mr. Fisk talks, and Bullseye knows if Matty does a good job, it always means there’s other jobs he can be tasked with. 

The slow-descent of the sunset glints off Matty’s glasses as they drive down the road, and he’s still got that same small self-satisfied smile he had when he first came to the marketplace.


	2. matt

**JUNE, 1963**

It is, for all intents and purposes, an easy Mission. He’s not one to be ungrateful, nor one to question his “Path” as the ilk here like to call it. No matter what, it still boils down to being yet another job for him to accomplish.

Maybe, if he were awarded the kind of leeway his _brother_ is allowed, he would be able to take a sense of pride in his work. But he’s not. And this line of business is _so_ passe. He’s been doing more challenging and worthy Missions than _this_ since he was a teenager.

The Mission was simple: make sure that a reporter who’s gotten a little too close to Home doesn’t have anything to say about it. The reporter hadn’t published a story, not as far as Matt knows, which made things almost too easy. The brunt of the Mission was spent looking for an opening, ensuring no one would return to look for him, ensuring he wouldn’t be the wiser to the fact that he was being watched.

Matt had slipped into the man’s home in the night and waited, waited for the sun to come up, presumably, since it wasn’t long until the man stirred. He had sat up, heart stuttering in his chest, and there had been a brief moment in which it settled down before jumping again, like he was _elated._

“Oh, you’re one of the _kids_ ,” he had said, and he had laughed, frantic and foolish, “Can I get a quote?”

(He doesn’t speak much while he’s working, and even after three years spent in the care of Fisk’s compound, he really only speaks Japanese during the rare times it becomes a necessity. Regardless of that, he doesn’t often have time for stupid questions.)

No, he had just drawn his katana and pointed it towards the stupid man’s heart. The man had made a small, yelping noise, not unlike some stupid little creature Bullseye picked up and brought home. Matt had moved in closer, the reporter stayed as if frozen in place, though he would have preferred the stupid man run. At least that would’ve added some challenge to it.

(But he wields his weapons and he is a weapon to be wielded and he is his weapon, an extension of himself; the sameness is what makes him efficient, but it also means that complaining is not an option.)

“What do you want from me?” The man had said, and Matt could smell the sweat on his brow across the room.

“Get your notes,” Matt’s voice had been stiff, achingly so, as if it had not been used in years rather than hours.

“What notes?”

He had not needed to clarify, all he had to do was to tilt his head as if scrutinizing the stupid man on the bed, to press the tip of his blade into the stupid man’s chest. That had been enough to get the reporter up and running, though he had not gone far, only to the desk in the bedroom.

Matt had followed, fast and light on his feet, and the man had shivered while trying to collect his notes. It had been enough to make the man drop the papers, but Matt had not been in the mood to pick them up off the ground, so he waited without a noise while the reporter gathered them all yet again.

Then, the man had sat them on the desk and turned back as if expecting further instruction. Instead, Matthew slid the katana into him carefully. The blade can cut through bone, but he has found that it goes dull so quickly if he does that often, so he had gone through the soft flesh of the stomach, barely catching on the spinal column.

The man had sputtered, spitting warm blood on his shirt and staying deliciously silent.

Matt had smiled at that, knowing it would be a clean job. 

(It is always best when they do not scream, when they do not fight back. The only good part about taking Fisk’s jobs is that oftentimes, the person to which the Mission is devoted does not know how to fight. It means that Matt does not come Home seriously injured nearly as often as he used to.)

The man had tried to grab the blade, as if he could pull it out of his stomach, but Matt only heard the patter of thick droplets of blood falling to carpet, palms sliced raw in his desperation. He had withdrawn the blade after that, as he doesn’t like it all that much when people touch it.

After that, the man had lingered for a second or two, taking steps back until he was pressed against the desk. And then he had crumpled to the ground.

Matt had been careful to avoid the blood as he was _meant_ to meet in an area with civilians before returning Home. He had rolled the reporter over and forced his mouth open with the tip of his katana, gingerly enough that he did not smell any _fresh_ blood in the process. He had been forced to get closer, though, because there’s nothing Fisk loves more than a Message, and then, Matt used one of his smaller knives to pluck the stupid reporter’s tongue from his mouth.

He had left the offending organ on the desk, in the place of the notes.

They are folded now, tucked into the breast pocket of his blazer. They are likely stained with blood, as he did not wash his hands until after pocketing them and that process was rushed at best. Fisk does not care about the contents of the notes, though. He only cares that they exist and will soon _cease_ to exist.

Matt still has blood under his nails; he can smell it and he knows that even if no one else will, Bullseye is bound to notice. So, when he goes back to the shitty fleabag motel he’s been tucked away in, he attempts to scrub some of it away in the bathroom.

He can’t tell for sure that he didn’t get any blood on his shirt, so he changes into another one, crisp and clean, the one he brought along specifically for going someplace with civilians. Of course, there’s a part of him that brought it for Bullseye’s benefit. The childish little _brother_ of his seems so _squeamish,_ though there’s cause to doubt the authenticity of the nervousness. He is not all that he appears to be, it would seem.

Still, he packs his suitcase and prepares to leave. If he awards himself just a couple minutes more of reprieve by wasting time as he packs, it’s a secret between himself and God alone. He does not have many earthly possessions and the only one which he affords any care or concern is his katana.

Once his things are all fitted back into place and the suitcase is closed, he picks it up, blazer draped protectively around the handle and close enough that he can feel it and know that no one’s managed to take the notes. Afterwards, he collects his cane; it is truly a work of art, sheathing his blade in a way which conceals it entirely.

However, it often galls him to use it. What it stands for, how it makes people pity him and move from his path and offer to bend over backwards to _help_ him. But it does make things easier and it gives people something to look at other than what he _is._ He is a chameleon, yes, but even the facsimile he wears can falter.

He is supposed to meet a small group of the Flock at their farm stand and while he’s aware of the location, he doesn’t rush. It’s another small moment he’s taking for himself. _Of course_ , it would look suspicious if he were to _run_ all the way there. And the sun is warm overhead and the job was oh so easy and clean and when he’s strolling down the street, he almost feels as if he’s alive. 

It puts him in a good mood, one that may even survive Bullseye.

He’s being unfair, maybe. He doesn’t hate Bullseye, not entirely, but there’s something so agonizingly innocent about him. Presently, he is seventeen, very nearly on the cusp of eighteen, but he has not changed a day since Matt first met him.

The trip to the marketplace is as drawn out as possible, but eventually he does have to reach his destination. As soon as he arrives at the entrance, he’s already beyond aware that Bullseye’s spotted him. But he won’t play along, not yet. He keeps on meandering into the marketplace, weaving between people until he gets close to the Flock’s stand.

“ _Matty_ ,” Bullseye tries to grab him from across the stands, but he steps back cooly, just enough to prevent it from happening.

Still, he doesn’t want Bullseye to get the wrong idea, to go off crying about how Matty won’t play with him, so he smiles and reaches out for some of the produce. He could smell their peaches a mile away and as much as living on a fucking farm disgusts him, he has to admit that he enjoys the perks of it.

He feels for a nice one, not too hard, not too soft, and takes it for himself. It’s so rare that he gets to _take_ things, almost as rare as being in as good a mood as this.

“Afternoon, Bullseye,” he says, doesn’t even put any bite behind it.

They rarely get along at times like these, times where he’s supposed to blend in seamlessly. It is not easy to indulge Bullseye when he stands out so completely against the background of the world they’re moving through. But today seems to be an exception, he can hear how excited the kid is in every word he speaks.

“Hi, heya Matty, was the trip good? Are you glad to be back Home? Home’s been awful lonely without you, you know, and Mr. Wesley was even _meaner_ than usual this whole entire week, but you know what, he made it up when he said I could go to the markets today and hang out with Mack and Katherine and Jack and all and--”

If they weren’t outdoors, he assumes Bullseye would be bouncing off the walls. He’s… energetic to say the least, well, not during those times where he’s eternally listless and half awake. And he has enough common sense to cut himself off midway through his tangent; perhaps, in another three years, he’ll be able to pare it down to one or two ideas before realizing the other person isn’t parsing much of anything he says.

But Matt isn’t exactly angry. He can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed, like he might have been if it were another day. No, he just continues on his way, half listening to his rambling excuse for a brother and coming around to stand behind their booth.

The two adults, likely tasked with keeping Bullseye occupied, are terrified of him. He could hear their hearts as soon as he entered, pounding away like a cornered field mouse. Bullseye does not seem to realize it and he’s in such an amicable mood that it almost makes him sad that Bullseye’s so achingly oblivious.

He waves at them, two fingered, could almost be classed as a salute. He’s being _polite,_ of course, never mind the way the woman’s heart skips a beat and the man’s pulse spikes. Then, he crouches down enough to fit comfortably under the tent, relishing in the coolness of the shade.

They spend an absolutely unnecessary amount of time outdoors at Home; neither of them are truly assigned any of the operational tasks of the compound outside of when the fancy strikes and Bullseye spends the day gardening. But keeping track of Bullseye often means getting dragged outdoors for all hours of the day. He doesn’t exactly like it and this is one of those rare times where he can think clearly enough to know what he does and does not like.

It feels as though Bullseye wants to say something else, he sways from side to side and wrings his hands over and over, large enough gestures that Matt can telegraph them with his _gift._ It was not previously referred to as a _gift_ but that’s what it is now, and if anyone asks, it’s what it’s always been.

Bullseye is moving differently than usual, like maybe his hair is up, but Matt doubts that Wesley offered to take care of it. Which means he must have accomplished it on his own and the part of Matt that always seems to forget that he’s only two years younger itches to praise him for managing such a mundane task on his own.

Eventually, Bullseye settles, taking a seat on the ground, and Matt follows in suit. He fishes a pocket knife out of his trousers and starts to cut the peach into slices. Perhaps, he would be infuriated by the sticky feeling of juice drying on his fingers, but he’s been trained to cope with worse sensations than this.

“You’re home for good now?” Bullseye speaks at a mile a minute and if they were at home, he doesn’t doubt that the kid would be hanging all over him, “Are you happy to come home? Was it a fun Mission?”

Some days, it’s even endearing, though he’ll be the first to admit that he doesn’t miss the terrible, mumbling, mess of half formed sentences that used to comprise Bullseye’s dialect. 

He smiles, more wry than out of genuine happiness, “You know the answer to that. They’re never fun.”

The Missions are either easy or a challenge, either quick or drawn out. He is in a good mood, yes, but that’s merely because of the ease with which he completed this task. The only other child in the booth is likely staring at him, though, which does nothing to help maintain his mood. She is not afraid, like her parents, but rather… _uncomfortable_ , perhaps. She is not moving, which makes it challenging to confirm that she _is_ staring, but they always are.

“Yeah, but you smiled and all, so I thought maybe-- You know,” Bullseye shrugs; he has a tendency to make large gestures, one he had seemingly already developed before Matt even arrived at the compound.

He’s shaking, though. And it’s not out of fear or apprehension, he’s _ecstatic._ It would be needlessly cruel to ruin his fun.

“No,” Matt says not as cold as he could be.

He pairs it with a half completed shrug and holds out one of the peach slices for Bullseye. The kid, his brother more than anything at times like this, takes it and starts chewing with his mouth open almost immediately.

Matt ignores him, instead taking in the sounds of the marketplace for about half a minute before deciding he’d much rather endure another distraction. He’s gotten good at keeping Bullseye busy over the years and, though he’d never admit it, he even enjoys some of the games they’ve developed together.

So he allows himself to relax as much as he’s able, which isn’t much in a place as crowded as this, “Describe the market.”

Bullseye gasps, sounding as if he might choke on his slice of peach. It’s easy to keep him amused and he always seems to be so genuinely concerned with ensuring that Matt’s enjoying the game just as much as he is. Sometimes, that’s even a possibility.

Bullseye slides over closer, not so close as to stand out. He _is_ sensible, smart even, sometimes.

“Lady with a real pretty flowery dress. It’s kinda hangin’ off her, and Matty, I bet you she’s gonna drop that head of lettuce by the time she leaves, she’s kinda fumblin’ around with way too much stuff.”

“What color is her hair?” Matt doesn’t need that information for the game, but he likes it when Bullseye offers enough details to fill in all the blanks.

“Hm,” Bullseye gives enough pause for Matt to remember that he seems to struggle with colors, “Like… Dark, dark brown.”

And he leans forward, peach all but forgotten in his hands, trying to single out the woman Bullseye’s surveying, “Her hair is pulled up, rather messy?”

Hairstyles are usually hard to get a sense for, but she’s been stopping every now and again to pull the ponytail tighter, to adjust hair clips or something similar. 

“Yeah.”

The confirmation from Bullseye allows him to focus on her more closely, to pick her out among the horde. She’s smoked, recently, but it does nothing to cover up the stench of vomit on her breath, also recent. And she keeps pulling her dress down, like she isn’t used to the fit of it.

“She’s pregnant, but she doesn’t know it yet. Cigarettes in her purse, dress a little too tight, because she hasn’t figured out why she is gaining weight yet.”

Bullseye laughs, an action that he displays in his whole body, throwing his head back enough that whatever makeshift updo he managed unravels. Then, he shifts, facing in a new direction to pick another target.

“What about this guy? He’s got--” Bullseye sucks in air through his teeth, as if he’s wincing, “Oh, Matty, he’s kinda gross. Must be a farmer, what with those overalls, and he’s got a big long beard. I bet he stinks.”

He already knows exactly who his brother is talking about, could smell the dirt and grime and pus and desperation and something… else, something sickly, as soon as Bullseye started to describe him.

“Oh, he does,” he says, smiling one of those smiles that usually scares people off, “He’s got caaaancer.”

He wiggles his fingers around his knife, as if it were some sort of specter looming over the marketplace instead of a pathetic man dying pathetically slowly. A couple years ago, it might’ve actually scared Bullseye, but now he just snorts as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“Well, God bless’m.”

“I can smell the pig-shit from here. Doubt he’s going to be seeking much medical attention.”

He’s aware that one of the parents must be looking their way ever so often because it’s always punctuated by Bullseye going quiet for a stretch. It never lasts long before he picks back up at their game. He usually plays this game until his brother loses interest or until he starts picking targets that Matt can’t describe without having to explain more than a couple uncomfortable things. 

It’s the latter, today, considering how many people are in the marketplace. Someone here is a killer, _not_ one of their Flock, another is a pickpocket, a third is stalking another, oblivious girl and she was the one Bullseye picked but Matt was far more preoccupied with her, for lack of a better word, shadow. He’s quite good at lying and he comes up with a story to keep Bullseye entertained, as half hearted as it may be.

The market dries up slowly, becoming quieter and quieter as the people filter out and by the time it’s almost done for the day, he’s long since finished his peach and has moved on to taking raspberries. No one will tell him to stop and Fisk isn’t nearly as concerned enough about the theft of the produce to punish him for it.

When it comes time to pack up, he ends up aiding in taking down the tent simply because the man tells him to and even if it is some nameless, unimportant farmer, he is not in the habit of disobeying orders. Or, he would be taking down the tent if it weren’t for the fact that Bullseye is still sitting beneath it.

He is almost concerningly vacant, heart rate and breathing completely calm and steady in a way that would be acceptable if it weren’t for the fact that people were speaking to him. The brat of the group throws what Matt’s assuming are berries at Bullseye, but it doesn't seem to do much of anything.

“Earth to Bullseye,” Matt says, holding up one leg of the tent to ensure that it does not collapse in on his brother.

Bullseye does not say anything, merely gets out of the way. Not long after, Matt can hear him talking with the child belonging to the two parents who run the stand. He’s not particularly interested in the conversation as much as he does not deem it important enough to block out.

“Hope I get to come with you folks again,” Bullseye even sounds _authentic,_ as if this is something _enjoyable_ for him.

The child sounds small, closer to her parent’s fear of Matt, “I think you were only here for him.”

The joint effort of the three of them proves to be quite efficient. The pop-out tent is already folded back up by the time Bullseye starts kicking at the dirt.

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, he really only talks to you,” the child says, and it makes Matt’s blood boil that he’s been so obvious about this that even a snot-nosed brat could notice it, “So maybe that’s why Mr. Wesley let you come with us today.”

He forces their voices out of his center of attention as he helps heft the tent into the back of the truck. He retrieves his suitcase and his blazer and his cane, katana sheathed neatly within it, as the other two load up the unsold produce. The cane was a custom piece, given to him… before _coming Home._

When he takes a seat in the truck, Bullseye is already tucked into the middle seat. The parents’ child is of the age that all novelty surrounding Matt has worn off and whatever anxieties the adults have about him, are starting to rub off on her. He is thankful that Bullseye serves as a buffer between them. It is a tight space and Bullseye is pressed right up against his side by necessity rather than some childish inclination towards affection.

Matt does not fit comfortably into the pickup truck, but that does not prevent him from keeping his suitcase almost superstitiously close. He will have to deliver the notes to Fisk as soon as they return Home, though Bullseye will most definitely protest. He allows his cane to rest against the window and while the tension is palpable in the air, the silence borders on soothing.

He doubts his good mood will last much longer than this, but it has remained longer than he expected and there is still some finite amount of freedom between the marketplace and Home. It is a comfort enough to get him smiling yet again.


End file.
